Got Your Number (21 page)

"He seemed to know an awful lot about you."

"Dad, he's a detective."

"He told me you were working together on a case."

"Well, we're not."

"He told me you could be in real trouble with the police."

"Well, I'm not."

"He told me about his partner. I think you should help him."

She closed her eyes. "Dad, I have to go. Keep the doors and windows locked, and don't talk to Detective Capistrano. I'll call you before I leave South Bend."

Roxann returned the phone to its cradle, trying to assimilate the bits of the conversation—discounting the absurd line of questioning about the infuriating detective. Schizophrenia was hereditary—was it possible that... no, Angora was a little flighty, but she wasn't a murderer. Heck, on any given day she had reservations about her own sanity.

Still, it might be a good idea to take Angora back to Baton Rouge as soon as possible, lest rumors about the Paulen girl resurface and disturb her further. They would leave first thing in the morning. As for Carl...

She sighed. Maybe after she tied up loose ends in Biloxi, she'd return to South Bend for that romantic dinner and... see what developed.

Remembering she hadn't yet checked her voice recorder at home, she quickly dialed the access number. Two messages.

"Hello, Roxann, this is Mr. Nealy. Your old boyfriend was hanging around the back door today—Richard, I think you said his name was? Anyway, if he gives you any guff, you just let me know."

So maybe it was Richard who'd broken in and left the message. Creep. She'd left town for nothing because she could have handled him with a kick to the groin.

The second message was a hang-up, so she quickly rejoined Nell at the table. "Sorry it took so long—I decided to check in with my dad."

"That's nice. How are you and your father?"

"We're fine."

Nell angled her head. "Something's wrong."

Roxann was drawn into the warmth of Nell's eyes, compelled to unburden herself just a little. "You were right. There is a history of mental illness in our family. Angora's and my great-aunt was schizophrenic."

Nell nodded sadly, then lapsed into another coughing seizure, this one more fierce than the last.

"I think I'd better take you home," Roxann murmured, rising.

"But you haven't eaten."

"I'm not hungry, and you need to rest." Nell didn't protest as Roxann helped her to her feet "I don't suppose the chances of getting a cab are any better than they used to be."

"Afraid not," Nell whispered with a smile. "But I'll be fine—my medication is wearing off, that's all."

"Still, I wish I had driven so you wouldn't have to walk."

"Can I offer you ladies a ride?"

Roxann closed her eyes and thought a very bad word. When she opened them, Capistrano was standing before them, cleverly disguised as a Good Samaritan.

Chapter 17

"What are you doing here?" Roxann asked him through clenched teeth.

"Having dinner—the scampi was great."

Nell's hand tightened around Roxann's arm. "Is this the man you told me about?"

She frowned. "No, this isn't Frank Cape. This is... an acquaintance of mine from Biloxi."

"Oh." Nell looked back and forth between them.

"Dr. Oney, meet Detective Capistrano."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She nodded, then looked back to Roxann, as if waiting for a cue.

Roxann surveyed his innocent expression, then sighed. "He's harmless. Where are you parked, Capistrano?"

During the short drive to Nell's, Roxann sat in the middle of the front seat of his Dooley truck and exchanged glares with him in the rearview mirror. She was half furious at him for following her, half furious at herself for assuming he wouldn't.

"Thank you," she said to him as he helped Nell down from the passenger side. He dwarfed the small woman, but seemed to handle her gently. At the porch, Roxann said, "I'll take it from here. Goodbye."

"I need to talk to you." His head was so big, it obscured the moon behind him.

"This isn't a good time."

"It's important."

She hesitated, then gave Nell an apologetic glance.

"Take as long as you need," Nell said. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you girls at breakfast."

When the door closed, Roxann turned, arms crossed.

He gestured to her outfit. "You look plumb girly tonight."

"Forgive me if I don't swoon."

"I'm not crazy about black, though. You should wear white."

"You
are harassing me."

"Funny, the last time I saw you, I saved your scrawny ass."

"My ass isn't—" She scowled. "I thought you had to get back to Biloxi."

He shrugged. "After you gave me the slip, I nearly said to hell with it and did."

Her smug smile came easily.

"But I had some time off coming to me and thought now was as good a time as any to take it." He leaned on the porch rail, as if he were planning to loiter.

"How did you know where we were?"

"Your cousin practically blurted it at the carnival, and when she said something about seeing a Dr. Carl, I figured it was either a medical doctor or a professor. I saw your diploma when I was at your dad's. Notre Dame is in South Bend. I just put two and two together. You'd make a terrible criminal."

"When did you get here?"

"I saw your crowning—very nice. Too bad your cousin outbid you for your old boyfriend."

She gasped.

"That's why you came back, isn't it? To see this Dr. Carl guy?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, it doesn't take a detective to see the way you two were making eyes at each other. But he's a little ripe on the vine, don't you think?"

She poked her tongue into her cheek. "What's the important thing that you wanted to talk about?"

"Pistachio."

"What?"

"Pistachio ice cream. It's a weakness of mine, and I was hoping I could persuade you to join me." He splayed his hands. "Unlike Dr. Grandpa, I'm free of charge."

"You're certifiable."

"And you're hungry because you didn't get to eat dinner."

"No I'm not." But her brain conjured up a picture of a big bowl of green ice cream and sent a prompt to her traitorous stomach, which howled into the silence.

His laugh rode on the light breeze. "Liar. Come on, you don't have anything else to do tonight."

She hesitated. "I'm
not
going to talk about Melissa Cape."

He held up his hands in an off-limits gesture.

She relented and stalked to the truck, but
only
because she couldn't bear the thought of spending an evening with Boots, Chester, Pumpkin, Buttermilk, and Pansy. She resisted his help climbing up, closed her own door, sat as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead.

"Brrrr." He shook with an animated shiver. "There is a definite draft coming off you."

"Go," she said. "Before I change my mind."

He went, and soon they were seated at the crowded bar of an ice-cream parlor that brought memories flooding back.

"This place used to be called Duck's," she said, mostly to herself.

He handed her the chocolate malt she'd requested. He looked fair to middling in a black sport coat over dark jeans and a white dress shirt. "Used to come here a lot, did you?"

"I worked here."

He grinned. "No kidding."

She surrendered a smile. "No kidding. Smock and apron and paper hat. The work was easy, and the tips were good."

"Were you at Notre Dame on scholarship?"

"No." She sipped her malt.

"No offense, but how do you pay back school loans on the kind of money you make?"

She glanced over. "That's absolutely none of your concern."

"Hm. Well, is there anything we
can
talk about?"

"Have you seen Frank Cape?"

"No. I suspect he hightailed it back to Biloxi."

The best news she'd heard all day. "I checked my voice messages. My neighbor said he'd seen a former boyfriend of mine lurking around—I suspect he's the one who broke in. If so, he's all bark."

"You have a lot of former boyfriends."

"Not so many."

Capistrano pulled out a pad. "What's Romeo's name?"

"Richard Funderburk."

"Is he old, too?"

She frowned. "Around thirty-five."

He wrote it down. "Anything else I need to know?"

She shook her head and sipped, noting the knuckles on his right hand still hadn't healed. "Who did you hit?"

"Hm? Oh." He looked down at his hand and made a fist, then opened it again, stretching his fingers. "Some bum resisting arrest. I lose count." He made a rueful noise in his throat. "You and I, we've seen our share of bums, eh?"

She nodded and sipped.

He shifted on the tiny seat that had to be killing him. "Roxann, I don't agree with what you're doing, but I do admire your commitment to something you believe in."

YOU FAKE. She couldn't look at him.

"What I'm trying to say is that even if you haven't been honest with me about—"

She shot him a warning look.

"—about... you know, I still think you're an honorable person."

She lifted her gaze and studied his brown eyes, made boyish by the spiky blond lashes, made wise by his line of work. Honorable? What would he think if she told him that she'd joined Rescue not out of any heartfelt commitment, but because a woman she respected asked her to? Because she needed a place to recuperate from Carl's rejection? And because after she'd recovered, it simply had been easier to stay and hide out? "Thank you, but like I said before, you don't know me."

"I'm trying to."

Roxann scoffed inwardly. He was trying all right—trying to work her. "You're wasting your time, Detective. You'll never find Melissa Cape through me."

One dark eyebrow went up. "I thought that was off-limits conversation."

"But it's why you brought me here, what you want to know."

"No." His mouth tightened. "What I want to know is that you prefer chocolate malts over ice-cream cones—"

"It was just a craving."

"And that you have a great tattoo on your ankle—"

"It's temporary."

"And that you travel to so many exotic places that you need a special watch—"

"It's for work." She gave him a wry smile. "See? You don't know me." She looked away and toyed with the straw, twirling it in the thick malt.
Honorable?
Yeah, right.

He didn't intrude on her silence, but she could feel his gaze on her, leaving her itchy and raw. Goose bumps skittered over her shoulders and arms, and she suddenly remembered how cold they always kept the ice-cream parlor. A shiver took hold of her, and her teeth chattered. Her chest tightened and her throat ached. Either she was coming down with a case of the flu, or a case of the guilts.

He shrugged out of his coat and settled it around her shoulders. She stiffened before conceding that the silky fabric felt good against her skin. When she was young and her parents happy, they would come in from parties, her mother wearing her father's sport coat over her pretty dress. It had seemed so intimate to her, and so grown-up.

Roxann sunk her teeth into her bottom lip—Capistrano was certainly playing the knight-in-shining-armor bit to the hilt. Still, he'd chased away her chill.

Conjuring up a smile, she turned toward him. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I was rude."

He shrugged enormous shoulders. "You're entitled not to trust me."

She signaled the waitress for a glass of water. "Don't take it personally—I don't trust anyone."

He dipped back into his ice-cream bowl. "Your dad told me about your mother—I'm sorry."

She bristled. "What did he tell you?"

He studied her. "That she died in a car accident."

"Oh." She looked down at the counter. "She did."

"How old were you?"

"Eleven."

"That's tough. Are you an only child?"

"Yes. You?"

"Nope. Six besides me, three brothers, three sisters."

Large families fascinated her. "Are you close?"

He pursed his lips and nodded. "Yeah, even though we're spread all over. It's nice."

"And rare."

"Your job has made you cynical."

"Yours hasn't?"

"Maybe," he admitted, then turned his spoon over and licked it clean. "But I'm always on the lookout for a reason to be optimistic."

"How's your partner?"

His expression turned rueful. "Same. But thanks for asking."

A family of six bustled in and ordered cones all around, the smallest ones barely able to see into the display case of forty-two flavors. A smile pulled at her mouth as she remembered the joy of handing a cone of blue or pink ice cream to a toddler. Ice cream could cajole anyone out of a bad mood—except her, it seemed.

"So, Detective, what does your family think about your being on the road like this?"

He scratched his head. "My parents haven't kept tabs on me for a while now." Then he smiled, which caught her off guard. "Oh, wait, you're asking if I'm married."

"Just making conversation."